


On the Hazards of Hicksville Cemeteries

by sobrecogimiento



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-24
Updated: 2011-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-18 15:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sobrecogimiento/pseuds/sobrecogimiento
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the prompt from hkath in the Make Kripke Kry! fest in ohnokripkedidnt: Sam and Dean (or Sam/Dean) - cows interfering hilariously with a hunt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Hazards of Hicksville Cemeteries

When Sam told Dean their current hunt involved a ghost haunting a graveyard, he had shrugged. 

When Sam told Dean their current hunt involved a ghost haunting the graveyard in which it was buried, he had looked at him, incredulous, and waited for the other shoe to drop, because things just weren’t that easy in real life. 

For one thing, it was a ghost, and yeah, that used to be the standard, but ever since they started taking on fucking  _demons,_  ghosts have been ridiculously, stupidly easy, something they take care of in a day, not so much the old challenge as something just annoying enough to be a pain in the ass. 

But it’s never this fucking easy. Sam finds the name of the poor dead bastard within two hours of asking the townspeople for local ghost stories, his damnable puppy dog eyes and fake identity of a reporter compelling all to spill their guts. Dean stands off to the side and lets Sam deal with it, because Sam is fucking  _amazing_  when he does this—hunting, tracking, crap like that can be learned, but this has got to be inborn, some genetic mutation that manifested itself in Sam while the same gene stayed flawed and unchanged in Dean and Dad. But really, Dean lets him deal with it because he has to let Sam be good at  _something._  He’s just an awesome brother like that. 

But even for Sam, friggin’ demon Jesus or whatever the fuck the hell-spawn thought he was, it’s never this easy. And it wasn’t. Figures. 

The ghost is a nasty son of a bitch, reassembling itself within two goddamned seconds after Dean pumps it full of rock salt, throwing graveyard junk at them all the while, rocks and sticks and pieces of headstones and bloody fingers and whatever. And Dean lets Sam stay safe in the nice, deep grave while he sticks his ass out in the open and risks getting hit with rotting dead person fingers, because he’s an awesome brother, and not because Sam’s digging like a madman and ripped his shirt off because it’s really hot down south in Hicksville and Dean can see the sweat glistening on his muscles, even in the moonlight. It’s so totally not even fucking like that at all. He’s just a fucking awesome brother. 

Dean thinks it’s weird when the next thing the rock salt hits moos, but between the dark and the spook and Sam making odd, half-groaning noises as he lifts the shovel—and stop fucking doing that Sammy, you’re distracting me—he chalks it up to the ghost going through its second childhood. And then he sees the cows. 

Ok, Dean thinks. What kind of sick, psychotic bastard would let his cows out to graze at night in a fucking graveyard? And he says as much to Sam, who takes a break in shovelling and looks up at him, chest heaving, and asks him what in hell and creation he’s talking about, but his tone really says, Dude, are you drunk? So that’s the question Dean answers. No, Sam, I’m sober. Which gets him an even more confused look, while Sam’s still panting away, and the light and shadow are doing really awesome things to his chest. And stomach. And everything. But then Sam tells him to never mind, to look out for the ghost, and keeps on digging. 

Dean’s about to tell him that he can’t fucking find the fucking ghost because there’re too many fucking cows, but he’s forced to swallow his words when the bastard’s almost on top of him, and he shoots it again, which of course goes right through it and hits a cow. Which gets mad. And starts charging at him while Dean thinks, idiotically, that this would be fucking hilarious in a movie. 

He stands there like a dumbass for a few seconds before he realises that the other cows seem to have taken number one’s idea as some good exercise before their midnight snack and join the stampede. There’s only one place to go, between the ghost and the cows—and seriously,  _cows?_ —and Dean accordingly jumps into the grave. On top of Sam. Who is shirtless and sweaty and now rolling around in the dirt. Motherfucking Jesus. Or demon Jesus. Or whatever. 

When Dean comes back around from thinking that now really isn’t a good time for Sam to find out—and there’s really never a good time, but this would have to be one of the absolute worst—he hears Sam saying that he thinks he found the coffin. Six feet under my ass, Dean thinks. It’s buried a good two feet deeper. Figures. 

Dude, Sam says, when he stands up, which Dean is relieved and disappointed about, there are  _cows_  out here. Dude, Dean says, when he stands up next to him, I  _told_  you. 

If there’s one good thing about cows, it’s that they have the attention span of an amoeba with ADHD. By the time Dean drags himself out of the grave, they’re back to grazing. He continues to hold the ghost and get bombarded with fingers and crap while he lets Sam salt and burn the fucker, because he’s an awesome brother. 

If there’s one bad thing about cows, it’s that they hate fire almost as much as rock salt to the ass. The damn thing’s burning and they don’t even have the chance to cover it up yet when the herd starts to panic, mowing damn near into them in a stampede to get back to whatever stupid hick let them out. 

Sam’s legs are too fucking long, enormous sasquatch that he is, and he gets way ahead of Dean on their run to the car. Any second, Dean’s expecting cow horns up his backside. Figures. 

Five miles later, Sam asks if they’re going back to bury the thing, and Dean says he’d rather give the locals and their fucking cows something to talk about. 

Ten miles later, Sam says that he left his shirt at the cemetery, and Dean glances over and sees that he’s right, and that his jeans are seriously too low on his hips. Mother _fucking_  Jesus. 

Fifteen miles later, Dean realises that the night is too hot to keep the windows open instead of the AC and that’s why Sam’s still sweating his ass off. He’s fumbling so much that he can’t see the controls in his own damned car, so he pulls over and the sweat dripping off Sam’s nose is totally fucking gross until Dean licks it off. 

He doesn’t pull away immediately and thinks he’s going to get punched, but Sam’s staring at him like  _oh_  and _more_ and other similar fragments of night. So Dean kisses him. 

Seeing as Sam’s a fucking whussy an all, Dean expects him to flail or go wide-eyed or something. He doesn’t expect Sam to practically tackle him, Sam’s tongue in his mouth to the point where Dean almost swallows it. Ten frantic seconds, twenty tops, and Sam pulls back. Dean thinks he’s going to die, because Christ, Sammy, if you didn’t want it you shouldn’t have gone along with it, you shouldn’t have looked at me like that. 

Sam sees his devastation all too easily and says, Dude, chill. We won’t  _fit_  in here. 

Dean nods, stammering something that’s probably completely asinine, and swerves back onto the highway, tires screeching. Damn college boy, thinks he’s so smart with his fucking thinking ahead . . . Fuck that. Fuck him. Literally. He needs to find a motel. Now. 

Fifteen miles behind them, an old hick farmer laughs demonically. Cows, Ruby thinks, are fucking awesome. 

~End


End file.
